


Hornstuck

by temporalDecay



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Black Romance, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Humor, Kismesissitude, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Which is not, as one might think, a story of horny trolls stuck in various sticky and vaguely anatomically incorrect positions, but rather the <em>riveting</em> tale of two kismesis who find horn abuse [no, not that kind of abuse] to be a perfectly reasonable expression of hate.</p><p>Although, all things considered, <em>kismesis</em> might or might not be a misnomer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hornstuck

**Author's Note:**

> Written after a lunch spent discussing my wayward _Tidestuck_ series and berating a friend for only now getting around to reading _Good Omens_. Thus this is full of not so much footnotes as parenthesis of all kinds.

There was a hush in the room as he entered it. The troll was tall, though not monstrously so [like the other, ah, celebrity currently staying in the base, who easily dwarfed every other troll in the entire _fleet_ and wasn’t so much respected as outright hysterically **feared**. (He liked that, truth be told, _a lot_.)] but what was definitely monstrously-sized were his horns. Those horns ensured that no one could _not_ look at him if he or she found herself in his vicinity. Even if he had not been owner of the most luscious pair of wings in the history of the empire, the horns alone would have not allowed him to go down in history without at least a generous footnote. [Though, perhaps, not the kind of history book you’re thinking of, right now.] 

It’s hard to explain if you’re not a troll, but I shall make an effort here, exactly what kind of living Adonis this young troll was in the eyes of those around him. 

His Cavalreapers considered him the only moon whose passage mattered at all, and like the sea, followed him without question. 

His Pesthandlers thought he was the most gifted creature in the world, and envied his skill in making all kinds of animals submit to him, without so much as causing them a single injury. 

The General Public [which, in every world, in every universe that has ever existed, is the worst kind of audience and the default enemy of public figures, in one of the large-scale kismesissitudes in Paradox Space that prove the Universe (every universe, really) itself works on quadrants, and only mentally challenged or frankly unevolved species have not reached the pinnacle of romance in accordance to cosmic law, like trolls] seemed to think he was a propaganda tool by the highbloods to quiet down the restlessness among lowbloods, but as far as propaganda tools went, he was by far the most photogenic of the lot. 

The girls in Accountancy thought he was _dreamy_. 

The boys did too, for that matter. 

All in all, there was a hushed, awed silence in the med bay as the troll walked in, with the unhurried air of someone who’s currently too busy doing something other than walking, to give much thought about the walking itself. He reached the second chair down the row, and sat down, absently resting one horn on the counter. His fingers moved with practiced ease on the small keyboard of his wireless communicator. [Note for humans and all other aliens, trolls invented iPhones. The human known as Steve Jobs merely found the design in a certain set of ruins and reproduced a subpar copy that, for instance, did not need to be insulted for ten minutes to make it work, and that also lacked the most interesting apps, like Cullathon, Angry Barkbeasts and Reprogrammatron. This last one will be, eventually, shared with a very special iteration of Earth, where her eternal spitefulness, Her Imperious Condescension was thus loved and feared planet-wide. (Of course, as anyone with a smartphone will know, but never admit, it doesn’t matter what kind of high-end tech you’ve got, so long as you can play Angry Barkbeasts in meetings under the excuse of taking notes for your boss.)] 

No one asked what the reason for his visit was. No one had to. 

Someone had attached a ball if plaster almost three times the size of his _head_ to the tip of the Summoner’s left horn. 

No one really had to ask who, either, really, unless they were some kind of green new recruit that arrived at the base that night. Because every single troll in the base, indeed, possibly the entire fleet, thought the Summoner was, quoting the Accountancy department without their permission, _dreamy_. 

There was only one troll that thought otherwise, who in fact found the winged brownblood to be something like: _a motherfucking SHITSTAIN IN THE MOTHERFUCKING history of trollkind and its UP AND FUCKING EFFICIENT fleet. Honk._ [Sic] [Quoted with permission, because the writer has, in fact, some modicum desire to live.] The one troll no one named out loud unless already in his presence, because rumor had it the sound of his name summoned him. And he was the kind of troll no one really wants to deal with, because jumping into a pit of acid on fire has better survival chances than a conversation with him. 

Still, as the nurseterrorists went about preparing to fix his horn [after rolling dice to see who was the lucky one that got to actually _touch_ his horns. (On a completely unrelated note, said nurseterrorist would unfortunately find herself in the wrong side of a poison accident two days later.)] the general consensus was that not only was the Summoner _dreamy_ , but he was also a calm and dignified professional who always acted with maturity and aplomb no matter the situation. 

Other trolls would be swearing or sweating or both, as soon as they entered the med bay. But not the Summoner. There he was, casually waiting for his turn, without even trying to pull rank or anything, still working diligently as ever. 

  


* * *

  


arrivederciTorquemada began trolling trascendentalCulling

AT: i WILL FUCKING END YOU, yOU MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE.   
AT: i WILL TAKE THOSE FUCKING CLUBS AND SHOVE THEM SO FAR UP YOUR FUCKING NOOK YOU WON’T BE HONKING FOR THE NEXT HUNDRED SWEEPS   
TC: honk.   
AT: dON'T YOU FUCKING HONK AT ME   
TC: HONK.   
TC: honk.   
TC: HONK.   
TC: honk.   
TC: HONK.   
TC: mother   
TC: FUCKING   
TC: honk.   
AT: i HATE YOU SO MUCH SOME DAYS.   
TC: 8o)   
AT: }:|   
TC: chill THE MOTHERFUCK out, my most despicable of brothers   
TC: WHAT’S A LITTLE PRANK BETWEEN BROS   
TC: especially bros OF PITCH BLACK DISPOSITION   
AT: sTAY AWAY FROM THE GRAND HIGHBLOOD, tHEY TOLD ME   
AT: hE'S DANGEROUS, tHEY TOLD ME   
AT: bUT NO, i HAD TO GO AND BE A GOOD LITTLE BROWNBLOOD   
TC: if you need FUCKING SUGGESTIONS to be a GOOD little BROWNBLOOD, this motherfucker has MORE THAN A FEW   
AT: sHUT UP, i'M RANTING HERE   
AT: aND YOUR SUGGESTIONS SUCK ANYWAY   
TC: honk.   
AT: aLL I’M SAYING IS THndlkgh   
TC: 8o?   
AT: fUCK   
AT: wELL, i HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY NOW   
AT: tHEY'RE FONDLING MY HORN   
TC: tell them motherfucking BITCHES THAT THOSE HORNS ARE MINE or ill be up and going down there TO DELIVER THE MOST SACRED OF SACRAMENTS ON THEM   
TC: actually i think ill go down anyway   
TC: I SHOULD MOTHERFUCKING SEE THIS   
AT: iF I SEE YOU COMING THROUGH THAT DOOR   
AT: i WILL NOT BE RESPONSIBLE FOR MY ACTIONS

trascendentalCulling is now an idle troll.

AT: i SHOULD HAVE BEEN A FARMER, rEALLY

  


* * *

  


In the Savannah [for trolls, the most common ecosystem/climate in Alternia, for aliens other than humans, a stretch of dry, dusty land with some grass and some water that is infinitely valuable because it’s _not_ deserted wasteland] when a single member of the main herd spots a predator, the resulting stampede is a riot of confusing running, panicked scrambling and eventual violence that might be somewhat hard to follow for the untrained eye. Given that anything involving the Grand Highblood [Lord of the Subjugglators, Imperial Moirail, High Priest of the Mirthful Messiahs, Supreme Administrator of Alternia and Admiral of the Imperial Fleet] always ended into a micro-rendition of the Savannah incident, the writer will try to hold your hand and show you what exactly happened after Intern Stockholm put her hand on the Summoner’s horn and felt him shiver beneath her, since she’d caused him to lose his train of thought. 

Removing the plaster ball should have been laughably easy, except it wasn’t, as mixed into it were nails, wire, glass shards and, for whatever the reason, a horn. [Note for humans and other aliens, troll language, being as superior to all as it is, is perfectly capable of differentiating between a horn, understood as one of those colorful protrusions on a troll’s head, usually in pairs, and a horn, understood as rubber ball and a metal tube that together create one of the most annoying sounds in the history of paradox space. In case you’re wondering, the thing they found stuck in the Summoner’s horn was the second type, and not some chunk of troll anatomy thrown in for shit and morbid giggles, though given who was responsible for the prank, that was entirely possible.] Horns were sacred among subjugglators, and the base currently contained the highest of all subjugglators. And needless to say, no one wanted to be the poor fool who ended up committing blasphemy or sacrilege, especially when there were other trolls around to watch and report it out of spite and professional ambition. [Which, them being trolls, was essentially the same thing.] 

The order of events was something like this: 

Intern Stockholm had one hand on the base of the Summoner’s left horn [unnecessary] while she used a incullator [by imperial decree, all medical instruments were required to include the word cull in them somehow, as a result of the transition between the Not-Entirely-Dim Ages and the Decidedly-Dim Ages, some nine hundred sweeps prior, given how many trolls claimed to be too injured to join the army. This was further complicated by the emergence of the Surgeon of Death, scarce two hundred sweeps later, who had renamed all medical instruments “incullator” in an effort to increase the fear of injury in all trollkind as well as the chance of fatal results in the operation table. He’d earned himself a commendation from the Empress herself and six chapters in So You Want To Be A Fucking White Coat, deluxe edition.] to scrape the plaster away. Intern Tourette, Inter Stockholm’s usual partner in healing cum crime, held a metal bowl currently full of nails, wire and glass shards, while casually aligning the neckline of her uniform with the Summoner’s nose. 

The receptionist pretended to be sorting out files, but was actually connected to a little pocket in the base’s network that hosted the Summoner’s Fan _club_ [get it?] and excitedly sharing a blow-by-blow narration of the events taking place before her eyes. She commented absently that he was far more muscular than most illegally traded security footage made it seem, and capable of frowning just as, if not more, boyishly as he usually smiled at the camera and everyone around him. [If you bothered to get to know him, personally, you would be surprised to discover the troll known as The Summoner was not, matter of fact, _boyish_ at all, but the propaganda department that had handled his case after he’d gotten his wings decided the best approach to a winged lowblood would be to make him some sort of morality pet of the state, which the Summoner found vaguely irritating, and the Grand Highblood, hilarious.] 

The Summoner typed furiously on his communicator, too busy fuming in the depths of his pan, to notice or care what was being done to free his horn. He didn’t have to worry, at least, about the medical staff bringing out a saw or something barbaric like that, because he knew for a fact they would get lynched if they upset the divine symmetry of his horns. His wings, folded neatly behind his back to fit him comfortably in the chair, twitched irritably as the troll he’d been ranting at went idle and refused to answer his constant pestering. That was about when they unearthed the horn in the mess of plaster in his, well, _horn_ , and it took him a moment to realize the room had suddenly gone deadly still. He looked up, found his nose buried in the cleavage of Intern Tourette, changed the angle, and stared at the monstrosity still hanging above his head. Most of the plaster had been chipped away, and he figured that just pulling the damn thing off would do away with the last remnants of the white stuff still sticking to him. The horn was purple, of course, and delicately decorated with squiggly signs all over that probably meant something to a subjugglator, but jackshit to your normal, uninitiated troll. 

And then the Grand Highblood entered the med bay, and the silence became truly oppressive. [Although enter is possibly the wrong verb in this instance, given the Grand Highblood was decidedly the wrong size to pass through the poor doorway. He didn’t so much enter as he burst his way in, taking the doors, the frames and a good chunk of the wall in the process.] 

These things happened in quick succession, then. 

The receptionist, being the oldest staff member present and frankly having a burning desire to live a few sweeps more, ducked under the desk and threw her arms above her head. 

Intern Stockholm let out a soft, choked sound, comparable to a tiny, furry animal dying, and crumpled to the floor in a mess of quaking limbs. She wasn’t unconscious, though, despite how much she would have much rather be. 

Intern Tourette threw the bowl on reflex, miraculously missing the highblood glowering in the doorway, and promptly passed out. Which she would later come to regret, as she would have wanted to be awake when her nose fell straight into the Summoner’s groin. 

For his part, the Summoner squeaked in surprise [at the crotch dive Intern Tourette’s nose took, rather than the Grand Highblood’s usual entrance] and then made a grab for the horn stuck to his, well, horn. He tore off the offending thing, gave it a tight squeeze and then hurled it with astonishing precision towards the Grand Highblood. 

It bounced off his forehead with a tired, half-hearted _honk_. 

The Grand Highblood raised from his usual crouch, eyes glowing red and teeth bared in an infernal snarl, but before he could do much else, the Summoner was dashing towards him, sliding right between his legs and as soon as he was on the corridor, unfolding his wings and fluttering away without looking back. The highblood let out a howl that echoed through out three quarters of the base and gave day terrors to whoever heard it, and took off on all fours after the pesky little brownblood with clear homicidal intent. 

In the aftermath of the widespread panic, undignified scrambling and otherwise unsightly behavior [as clearly outlined in the Troll Army booklet, widespread panic, undignified scrambling and otherwise unsightly behavior are only acceptable when it’s the opposing side that indulges in it] the whole incident was soundly declared classified. Which of course meant it was the only thing anyone talked about for the next two perigees. 

Someone, though bureaucracy (un)fortunately buried their identity into the abyss, also took pity on the base and casually slanted both the Summoner’s and the Grand Highblood’s personal quarters to be refitted with improved soundproofing. 

  


* * *

  


Kismesissitude is one of the most misunderstood quadrants, both for most trolls and for aliens boggling at the complicated mess trolls call romance. [Auspisticism isn’t so much misunderstood as flat out ignored, most of the time.] 

It is not, as many young, impatient trolls will have you believe, a matter of simply finding someone you hate and spending the rest of your lives trying to alternatively cull and fuck each other, sometimes at the same time. [As a matter of fact, the widespread misinformation about kismesissitude is possibly the reason the ashen quadrant is in fact the most likely any troll will fill before turning ten sweeps old.] One might indulge in the occasional fantasy of drenching his or her hands in the blood of their kismesis, of course, but to actively work towards their untimely end is a failure that entitles the other side of the relationship to reciprocate with deadly intent. 

No, a kismesissitude is a far more delicate affair. It requires a very particular type of hatred that is often easily mistaken for another sort. It needs to have the necessary amounts of jealousy, disdain, obsession, competitiveness and, of course, lust, to form any kind of lasting bond. Violence is, oddly enough, optional in the great scale of things. A kismesis is not just someone you end up fucking because otherwise you might end up culling them. After all, troll society actively encourages you to cull any and all that get in your way – or on your nerves – and in fact provides many, many loopholes in its complicated laws and ceremonies to get away with murder. One must want their kismesis to succeed, and a great part of a successful, healthy kismesissitude revolves about challenging each other to better themselves. This is, of course, not fueled by pity, as is the case in a matespritship, but on the fierce knowledge that the higher the opponent one eventually defeats, the greater the glory one will get. The fact that the game is also rather entertaining and often exciting enough to postpone the defeating indefinitely, is also a very fine line only those touched by serendipity can hope to understand. 

In theory, two trolls will engage in blackflirting when they’ve found in each other someone worthy of calling nemesis, someone they hate and lust for, and for whom they feel an overwhelming need to dominate, yet at the same time would not find their prides strained by submitting to, every so often. It is a sacred bond, something to be guarded zealously and to be treasured in those early mornings you wake up with so many scratches and bites it’s a miracle you’re not slanted for culling due to blood loss. Those mornings you think, _damn_ , and think you’re alright with your place in the world, because it was your kismesis’ until a few hours before. Good, proper kismesissitudes encourage creativity, subterfuge, intelligence and machinations. 

In practice, most trolls are often too stupid to figure out elegant ways to cull the fuckers that annoy them, so they end up fucking them instead. It’s rather sad, really, and somewhat embarrassing. But for every thousand kismesis that lack finesse and the understanding to enrich their spirit, there is a pair blessed by serendipity, and they are often those who find themselves at the helm of great armies, wondrous adventures or mind-blowing discoveries. 

And then, there are trolls like the Summoner and the Grand Highblood. 

It had been hate at first sight, of course. The Summoner was a pawn in the political game that had somehow ended up among the Cavalreapers out of some miraculous shuffle, after several attempts by Threshecutioners, Laughsassins and even Ruffiannihilators to recruit the winged wonder. He was young, ungodly charming and irritatingly naive. The Grand Highblood, on the other hand, was a well-known, well-feared troll who knew exactly where he stood in the order of things. [Namely, he knew he was in charge, and didn't care much for the rest of the world, so long as they kept themselves below him, with only his moirail as the exception that confirmed the rule.] He was several hundred sweeps old by then, a personal favorite of the Empress and the star of more lusus horror stories than any other troll in history. [Troll!Attila had been a fierce contender for that last title, but for all his deeds, the matter had been settled on height and size alone. Incidentally, Troll!Attila remained a cult-classic for trolls who had been cheated by genetics and found themselves a tad too short to be intimidating. A few centuries later, Troll!Napoleon would quote Troll!Attila as being one of the inspirations that convinced him to become the veritable tyrant he was.] 

The heart of the matter, as it were, was that they couldn't stand each other. Which was rather unfortunate, given the circumstances. The Cavalreapers reported directly to the Subjugglators, and the Grand Highblood in particular, and the Summoner happened to be their leader and thus the public figure expected to fulfill the duty. [The Summoner was, by the time he'd been given a lance and told to impress the Empress, very used to expectations.] Whereas the Summoner was, essentially, untouchable so long as he kept himself in line. Being a public figure and a propaganda tool, a successful one, that is, meant that the only chance the Grand Highblood would have to tear the fucker's wings off would be if he somehow got it into his pretty head to become a rebel or something like that. [Which was, actually, what ended up happening, a few sweeps later, when the Summoner found Religion, opened his eyes to the injustices of the world, and traded his spot as Public Figure to become Public Enemy. But that's a story for another time.] Thus, condemned as they were to withstand each other's presence and more than that, work together, an Arrangement of sorts had been devised. Both were fully committed to success, the Grand Highblood because he could not stand to disappoint his moirail, the Summoner because he rather fancied living. 

Many would tell you, having read a certain illegal text passed around the base, that in the end, the Summoner's boyish charm had managed to bring out another type of hatred in the Grand Highblood's bloodpusher, and that their story was one of the purest serendipity touching two extremes of the hemospectrum. This was, of course, a load of crap. The Summoner was not, in any shape or form, what you would call boyish. [On his third sweep of service to the Empire, he actually developed a nervous twitch in his wings, whenever he heard the word, but of course, his perfect smile never faltered in public.] As for the Grand Highblood... well, there had been once that incident with a certain blueblood E%ecutor and a certain rebellion One Does Not Name Under Pain Of Culling, and trolls who wanted to live knew better than to ask about what happened in his bloodpusher, lest he made them examine their own. Literally. 

The only thing that mattered, indeed, the only thing everyone knew, was that the Summoner and the Grand Highblood hated each other in not entirely platonic ways. And the only reason anyone knew about the non-platonic side of it, was because the Grand Highblood had a tendency to be, shall we say, _loud_. [Though if you really want to know how it came to be, know there were vast quantities of alcohol involved, two black eyes, three tasteless pail jokes, a packbeast and a body count well in the hundreds. But that's a _boring_ story and I shall not trouble you with it.] 

Their kismesissitude was neither healthy nor sane. It wasn't entirely based on sex, though both were willing to agree [to no one but themselves and perhaps the bottom of an empty glass] that the sex was nothing short of spectacular. The Grand Highblood had size that would have made half of trollkind faint at the very thought of it, and the Summoner flexibility that would have made the other half swoon. It was also not about passion or everlasting hatred, either, because if one were to be honest about it [which they were not], at the end of the night, they kind of actually, almost liked each other. The Summoner would tear out his own wings rather than admit some of the Grand Highblood's jokes were actually _funny_ , for instance, and the highblood would sooner fuck himself on his own damn clubs, that own up to the fact the stupid lowblood was probably the most efficient agent the Empire had at their disposal, and thus the least likely to give him a migraine. No, their kismesissitude had a more solid, noble foundation, something even serendipity had never stopped to account for: _Booze._

Thus, after the unfortunate incident in the med bay, a long chase through the corridors of the base [which would, as luck would have it, be witnessed by a visiting composer that was supposed to write a new hymn for the Empress' upcoming coronation anniversary, and inspired him instead to write the _[Sakety Yax](www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZnHmskwqCCQ)_. Which got him culled and his work lost for ages, until eight hundred sweeps later, an intrepid TV producer would unearth the lost notes, mistranscribe the title, and regale future generations of trolls with the true sound of comedic pandemonium.] four hours of decadent fucking, two of actual pailing, and more property damage than the last three rebellions combined, two sweaty, filthy and utterly shameless trolls were lying around the floor of a demolished room, intent on drinking themselves to oblivion. 

“I would explain how much I fucking hate you right now,” the Summoner slurred, squinting at the shapeless form before him that he supposed was big enough to be his kismesis, "but that would imply inventing several dozen new words and fuck this shit, I’m too sober to start mangling the language and not feel bad about it." 

The Grand Highblood laughed, sprawled as he was, staring at the blotch of orange somewhere in front of him. 

The downside of an Arrangement like theirs was that it often ended up resembling a proper kismesissitude to the point they were likely to forget it _wasn't_ one. Good and proper kismesissitudes didn't include passive aggressive mission reports, like the ones the Summoner could pen when inspiration _really_ struck. Or ridiculous pranks that were the right taste of potentially lethal and harmlessly infuriating. Or property damage with more than sixteen zeroes attached to it. Or the Summoner's habit to redirect the Grand Highblood's wrath away from innocent bystanders and onto himself. Or every so casual attempts to make the other not _fail_ as just not succeed with the flourish they had expected to. 

The upside of an Arrangement like theirs, however, was that when you remembered about the downside, all you had to do was get drunk and fuck each other blind, and then all was good and well in the world again. 

Well, that, and if you asked the Summoner, the ability to get _even._

[Which in this case included two gallons of superglue, sixteen pounds of lowgrade gemstones, eight pounds of glitter, nine yards of multicolored yarn, four hours of painstaking care, and one handwritten note: 

Not to mention, of course, all the alcohol required to render one of the most powerful trolls in the empire vulnerable and unconscious. The aftermath of _that_ gave even the Empress pause.]

**Author's Note:**

> ...I regret nothing.


End file.
